


the sun still rises (even through the pain)

by frecklesandfrogboy (startwithasong)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (kinda graphic), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Self-Hatred, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6357853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithasong/pseuds/frecklesandfrogboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BASED ON PROMPT: Murphy drinks all night to dull the pain, gets super shit faced. Bellamy holds his hair back as he pukes his guts out. ~acceptance and bonding moment~</p><p>or, murphy is a sad drunken teenager and bellamy shows him the sunrise</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun still rises (even through the pain)

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing murphamy ever so………i hope it’s up to par. (title from “another story” by the head and the heart)
> 
> also, i basically directly stole a line from one of my sister’s fics (something to you), with her permission. shoutout to her (thanksforthecrumb) for being my beta and resident murphamy expert. bonus points if u spot the rick and morty reference :-)

Murphy hates parties. He hates the stupid music they play, bass thudding deep in his stomach so his ears are ringing for hours after he leaves. He hates the fucking “party games” that are just a poorly veiled excuse to get hammered. He hates everyone his age; everyone’s fake and desperate for attention, and it makes them obnoxious people and even worse drunks.

But parties are the only way he can drink without feeling like his mother. Yeah, he’ll get so shit-faced he won’t remember his own name, but at least he’s _social_ about it.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. It’s not like he’s _lonely_. Even if he were, it’s not like going to parties would make him feel any less so. Nobody pays attention to the scrawny kid with dark eyes, they’re too busy trying to look like they’ve actually had a shot before.

He’s got a routine. One: arrive an hour late so there’s enough people to go unnoticed (nobody invites an antisocial sophomore nobody to a high school party) but nobody’s gotten too drunk yet.

Two: steal a bottle of vodka. Scotch works too, but vodka is the best, in Murphy’s opinion. Really, anything will work, as long as it’s strong and comes in a large quantity.

Three: find the best place in the house to be alone. This is never a place you might think—bathrooms fill up quick and any surface large enough to hold up two drunken bodies is likely to do so at some point before the end of the night. Outside is too cold (and a little too pathetic), and if it’s a house with a pool or hot tub, well—drunk people like swimming. Murphy likes windowsills, corners, or countertops. Spaces behind the couch work. Anywhere that people will ignore.

Four: drink until you can’t remember why you’re drinking. This usually takes a while and a good deal of dedication, but Murphy has the time.

Finally, five: try not to throw up too much on the walk home. Don’t let your mother hear you climbing into your bedroom window at five a.m. She probably won’t. She usually doesn’t notice shit these days. It’s always good to be prepared, though. You don’t need a speech.

At this point, Murphy’s an expert at scouting out which parties will allow him to carry out this routine efficiently and seamlessly. Tonight will be particularly obnoxious, but particularly rewarding, because this is a graduation party at Bellamy Blake’s house.

Blake is a fucking hero at Ark High; high honors student and best soccer player in the school (he brought home the championship three years in a row and consistently won the team sportsmanship award, not to mention MVP).

Murphy’s not a huge fan of Blake, but then he’s not a huge fan of anyone, really. He is, however, a fan of Blake’s _house_. The kid’s not rich by any means—he’s got a bring-your-own-booze policy to keep partying costs down—but he’s got a skylight in the uppermost bedroom, overlooking the street.

Murphy likes the house for that reason; pushing a chair underneath the skylight allows just enough room for Murphy to crawl through and sit on the roof of the house.

If he thinks about it, there’s very little logic to Murphy’s habit of drinking at parties without actually partying, but it works. Maybe a small part of him wants to know that if he drinks himself into oblivion, someone might find him. He doesn’t have much hope of that at home.

It’s not that Murphy wants to be helped—that’s the last thing he wants. He doesn’t want anyone to look at him with those eyes, the poor little boy whose daddy died. He’s sick of it. He’s sick of everything. He’s sick…

It hurts in the way nothing else does, a physical ache that starts in his bones and works its way throughout. It hurts in the way that makes things move in slow motion, because every passing second is just one more second of living without the one good thing he’d ever had. The one good thing he might ever have.

Murphy breaks the seal of the bottle he snagged from the countertop. (It’s a bring-your-own-booze party, but Murphy can’t handle another lecture from his mother about stealing her liquor.) The party music is thumping below him; excited screams and cheers punctuate the muffled celebration. It exhausts him, all of it, the energy expelled by all these stupid kids trying to convince themselves that anything they do will ever be worth anything. Even more, it exhausts him to know that nothing will.

He takes a first swallow. The liquid is room-temperature and harsh, but it’s what he wants. What he needs. Anything to stop him from thinking. It’s been eight years, but he’s never been able to silence his thoughts like alcohol can. He takes another swig, longer this time, and waits for his mind to ease.

What the kids who go to these parties don’t seem to understand is that drinking is _easy_ , you just have to mean it. You don’t need a stupid game to get drunk, you just need a reason. You need conviction. And it doesn’t have to fucking _taste good_ , either. It just has to go down and stay there.

It gets easier the longer you do it, too. One swig becomes two, two becomes four, and soon they all blur together. Murphy cradles the bottle in his clammy hands, letting it burn down his throat before taking another drink. His mind is foggy, unpleasantly so, but if he’d wanted to be sober he wouldn’t have gotten drunk. He’s had about a third of the bottle, but his mind hasn’t turned to liquid yet, so he keeps going. And going.

He’s never found anything he needs at the bottom of a bottle, and part of him knows he never will, but that doesn’t stop him from searching.

Every time Murphy drinks, he reaches a critical point where, if he doesn’t drink fast enough, he begins to think about everything wrong with him and everything wrong with everything else, and once he’s reached that point he becomes a wreck.

Not a wreck in the way that he wants to be, numb and only half conscious, but a wreck in the exact opposite way—too sensitive, too nostalgic, too…

He feels it coming on before he can stop it, and everything starts going the wrong way. Maybe it’s a different kind of vodka than he’s used to, or maybe it’s just this particular Friday night, but instead of dulling his memories, in a violent instant, they’re crystal clear; shards of ice tearing through his mind.

He remembers red and blue lights, a blank face. A tall man asking for his mother, delivering the news. He’d been sick at the time; a terrible cold. His father had gone out for hearty chicken noodle, the only soup he would willingly eat. _Don’t humor him_ , his mother had said, _it’s ten o’clock for God’s sake_ , but Alex Murphy was never one to let his son down.

Murphy tries to take another swig of vodka but it’s too late. The memories are here. He can’t stop the flood once it’s started, and he hates himself for letting it.

He remembers his mother, tense and quiet in the waiting room after the crash. When he tries to speak, she shushes him, harsh.

When the doctors let them into the room, he doesn’t look the same. The chart on his bed reads _Murphy, Alexander_ , but he doesn’t look right. He’s made of wires and machines, his head looks funny and red. The only sound he makes is _beep. beep. beep._

They wait in that room for three hours, just _beep. beep. beep._ His mother doesn’t speak so he doesn’t either.

Murphy can still hear that monotone, clear as day even in his clouded mind. He can still hear it suddenly speeding up, doctors crowding into the room, pushing him and his mother out of the way, yelling at each other. The beeping turns into one long _beeeeeeeep_ , and he thinks that means it’s over and they can all go home now.

Julia pulls him out of the room by the arm, too hard, as he hears a doctor mutter, “Time of death: two forty-nine a.m., March 11…”

He remembers the drive home, two hours later, tense and quiet save for his constant sniffling. He’s exhausted and still sick—he should have been getting rest for school the next day instead of staying up all night.

They’re almost home by the time he breaks, the tears bubbling out of him all at once.

_John, get a hold of yourself_ , his mother says, words clipped, but he can’t.

The car slams to a stop. _John, so help me_ ** _God_** _—_

He chokes it back.

They get home. He hasn’t cried in front of her ever since that day.

He remembers the box the same officer drops off at their two days later. A. MURPHY is written on the side. In it, a few CDs, one broken. His father’s baseball cap. It has a spot of blood on it, small enough that the hat was salvageable, but big enough that wearing it is out of the question.

Two cans of hearty chicken noodle soup, pristine and still in their WalMart shopping bag. They survived the crash far better than his father had.

He takes the box to his room.

He remembers the days after, the empty house. Julia stays in her room, never leaving. He learns how to make soup himself that week. He doesn’t want to eat the cans from the crash but they can’t afford to just throw it out. The first spoonful makes him vomit all over the kitchen floor.

He cleans it up on his own, and Julia never finds out because she doesn’t come out of her room. He eats the rest.

When he tries to coax her out of her room she screams at him.

_Why are you mad at me?_ He doesn’t understand. She should be sad. He’s sad. Everyone else acts like they should be sad.

She’s not sad, though. She is angry.

_It’s your_ ** _fault_** _, John!_

Murphy feels the pain rising in his chest and coughs up a mouthful of vomit, tears springing to his eyes as it sears his throat more than it did when it went down. This wasn’t the plan—it almost never happens, but it’s happening now, spilling past his lips and onto his shirt.

He grabs the bottle and climbs back through the window as quickly as he can. He knows this feeling all too well; in a few moments he’s going to be vomiting up a fucking vital organ. He barrels past partygoers, stumbling, feeling it rising, ignoring the people he bumps into and the “watch where you’re going, dickface!”, because it’s _seconds_ away now—

He forces his way into the bathroom where some straight couple is making out on the toilet—“ _Move,”_ he growls, and they must sense the urgency in his voice because they get the fuck out just in time for Murphy to set the vodka on the floor and empty his stomach into the toilet.

He crumples to the bathroom floor, his head pounding and his entire body sweating slightly. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, and his stomach already hurts but within moments he’s back to vomiting with a startling ferocity.

“Hey—are you okay?” It’s a familiar voice, stupidly deep, but Murphy doesn’t have time to see who it is. He retches into the toilet again. “Shit, did you drink all that?”

Murphy spits into the toilet and wipes his mouth at the back of his hand, looking up at the intruder.

Who other than His Highness Mr. Bellamy Blake, King of the party, and quite possibly the _last_ person Murphy wants to see right now.

“Fuck off,” Murphy croaks, but his face is still wet with tears and his nose is running, and it sounds more pitiful than anything else.

He heaves again, choking as more comes up. His hair clings to his face, already wet with sick, but suddenly he feels hands on his cheeks. He flinches violently and gags, but the hands only gather up his hair and wait for him to be done.

Murphy spits once and jerks his head back, flushing the toilet and standing up shakily. “Get off me, Jesus.”

Blake backs away, holding his dirtied hands away from his body. Murphy looks him up at down warily. “You didn’t have to do that.” _Shouldn’t_ have. He doesn’t need some older boy to hold his hair back like a fucking girl.

“Sorry, it looked like it was…in the way.” Blake washes his hands off in the sink. Murphy’s head is swimming and his stomach still hasn’t settled.

“Well, you’ve done your good Samaritan bullshit,” Murphy says. “Thanks, and everything. You can fuck off now.”

Murphy moves toward the sink and Blake makes room for him. Murphy splashes cold water on his face, holding his breath and waiting for Blake to leave. “I’ll go get a towel,” Blake says. He’s gone before Murphy can protest.

Murphy looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red, his cheeks swollen. It’s just his luck he has the kind of face that lets everyone know exactly how much he’s been crying. He sticks his head in the sink and rinses his hair off. He cups the water in his hands and gargles.

He can rinse the taste out of his mouth, but he can’t drown his thoughts out. He can’t stop seeing the flashing lights, hearing the _beep. beep. beep…_

Blake returns with a towel, fluffy and pale green. Murphy takes it wordlessly, rubbing it on his head. “All right. All better,” Murphy says, really starting to get irritated. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so horrible in his life. He doesn’t want anyone, much less _Blake_ , to see him like this. “You can go now. Seriously. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Instead, Blake throws him a black t-shirt. “Here,” he says, his voice gruff but soft.

“I don’t need your charity,” Murphy growls.

Blake rolls his eyes. “It’s a t-shirt, kid, it’s not a fucking kidney.”

Murphy makes a face and takes the shirt. Upon turning it around, it’s got the smiling Nirvana logo on the front. He glances back up at Blake who waits in the doorway, watching him. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Murphy says, ignoring the gnawing feeling of discomfort at the back of his neck. His head is swimming. “Are you just gonna stare at me?”

Blake looks at him strange, and Murphy’s skin crawls, but Blake says, “I’ll get you some water,” and once again, Murphy is alone.

He feels prickly as he takes his vomit-covered shirt off and pulls the Nirvana shirt over his head. He doesn’t like people watching him. Paying attention. That’s _Murphy’s_ job. He wipes his hands off on the shirt, sweaty, and walks out through the partying teenagers and into the empty kitchen. His stomach still hasn’t settled, and he really doesn’t want Blake to regret letting him borrow the nerd shirt.

“There you are,” Blake says, thrusting a glass of cold water into Murphy’s hands. Murphy recoils when their hands touch, almost dropping it. He backs up, acting like this is normal behavior, and leans against the counter.

“You okay?” Blake asks, because naturally he noticed, the asshole. Murphy wants to go home. He’s not drunk enough to deal with this.

“Whatever,” he says, and waits for Blake to leave.

Blake doesn’t leave, though, just stays there, watching, with his stupid fucking deer eyes and his freckles blurring together.

“Why would you want to drink all that?” Blake asks him, arms folded. “You’re, what, sixteen?”

“What does it matter to you?” Murphy hisses. “You don’t know shit about me.”

Anger crosses Blake’s face, but it quickly melts into something else, something gentle. Murphy hates it, whatever it is. “You don’t have to tell me. Jeez.”

Murphy sips his water gingerly. His stomach seems calm now, but his throat is burning. “You can _go_ now.”

Blake shakes his head, leaning against the counter next to Murphy. “How are you getting home?”

“Why do you care?”

Blake is silent for a moment, then, inexplicably, he laughs. “You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?”

Murphy takes another sip of water, staying quiet. Why should he make anything _easy_ for this asshole?

Underneath his irritation, Murphy is nervous. He doesn’t go to parties intending to interact with anyone. He goes to parties to get drunk, away from—

“I can take you home, if you want,” Blake says.

Murphy scowls at him. “I’m fine.”

Blake shrugs. “If you say so. Forest Ave is a pretty long walk at four a.m.”

“How do you know where I live?” Murphy demands. He can feel something rising in his stomach now, and he finishes his water in an attempt to push it back down. He’s exhausted, and he doesn’t want Blake to follow him back into the bathroom if he does have to puke again.

Blake gives him a strange look and takes the glass out of Murphy’s hands, pushing it under the refrigerator dispenser and refilling it. Murphy takes the glass back, reluctant but grateful. “You don’t remember?” Blake asks him as Murphy drinks. “Your dad was my soccer coach when we were kids.”

Murphy hadn’t remembered until just then, because what the hell was the point of getting smashed if you could remember things? Yeah, he fucking remembers. Grass stains and worn cleats and bruised knees, early Saturdays and carpools and the car he died in. Murphy squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Sorry, I…” Blake clears his throat. “Is it because of him?”

His voice is too careful, almost… _tender_. Murphy straightens up, finishing the water and shoving it back into Blake’s hands. “Just leave me alone.”

“John,” Blake says.

“Oh my _God_ , can you just— _fuck off_ , asshole! Why the fuck do you care?”

“Why shouldn’t I? You’re clearly—I don’t know, in _distress_ or something, why wouldn’t I feel—”

“I dare you to say you feel sorry for me, Blake, I fucking dare you, I swear to _God—_ ”

“John, I’m just trying to say—”

“It’s _Murphy_.”

“ _Murphy_ , I just don’t want you to feel like you have to go through shit like this _alone_.”

Murphy wants to laugh, _so hard_ , but the sound won’t come out and instead, horribly, his face twists and he can feel a fucking sob rising in his chest, and he says, “It’s _easier_ that way.”

Blake smiles, and to Murphy’s surprise there is no pity on his face. “Is it?”

Murphy swallows hard, sniffs. “My dad died too, you know,” Blake says. “I understand what you’re going through.”

“You don’t, though,” Murphy says. It hurts so much to talk about it, more than it does to think about it, more than it does to drown it out. He doesn’t want this. He just wanted a fucking normal night at a fucking normal party. “It’s not the same for you.”

“Okay,” Blake says, “Maybe it’s not the same. That doesn’t mean… That doesn’t mean I can’t help.”

“I never _asked_ for your fucking help!”

“John. I mean, _Murphy,_ all I’m saying is—”

Blake stops. With a sudden voice of clarity, he says, “It was Monday, wasn’t it.”

“What?” Murphy asks, knowing exactly what. He looks down, not wanting to see that stupid, horrible look on Blake’s stupid freckled face.

“March 11,” Blake says. Murphy fights the urge to say _yes, yes, of course it’s fucking that you dick_ , but instead he manages to stay silent, his whole body shuddering instead.

“Murphy,” Blake says, quiet. Not moving his head, Murphy glances up at him, but to his surprise Blake doesn’t have that look at all. There is no pity or sympathy in his eyes. It’s something else, something warm.

_You don’t get it,_ Murphy thinks, but he’s so exhausted and his entire body aches, his _soul_ aches, and he says, shaky, “It’s not okay.”

Blake nods quickly, pursing his lips. He doesn’t say anything, so Murphy continues, feeling stupid. “Everyone says it is. It’s not, though. He shouldn’t have—he shouldn’t have—” His eyes burn and he shakes his head. He’s not going to cry in front of Blake.

“Yeah,” Blake says. “It doesn’t have to be okay.” He sighs. “It still… I mean, it’s still rough for me too. Sometimes.”

Murphy sniffs and looks at him hard. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to feel this vulnerable, this weak, and certainly not in front of anyone, _God_ , but he forces the words out. “How do you deal with it?” He hates that his voice sounds so small.

Blake shrugs, looking down at the string bracelet on his wrist. “I have O, I guess. I have people to talk to. I have soccer, I have my team. I, y’know…distract myself, if I have to.” After a pause, he adds, somewhat jokingly, “Not with half a bottle of vodka, though.”

Murphy doesn’t find it funny. He doesn’t have a sister, or a team. He doesn’t even have a mom. He doesn’t have anyone, not anymore.

“You don’t get it,” he says, putting the glass down. He squints, trying to locate the front door through the flashing lights of the living room.

“Hey, come on.” Blake touches his arm, but Murphy moves away.

“Stop—stop fucking _doing_ that, Jesus Christ! You can’t just barge into my life and become my fucking _therapist_! I don’t want you here! I don’t want anyone here! I just want—”

He stops dead, eyes blurred with tears.

“Murphy,” Blake says, “I know you really don’t want me here, but…” He sighs, running his hands through dark curls. “I dunno, I’m here anyway. Okay? If… if you _need_ me.”

Murphy doesn’t know what he needs. He stands there stupidly, eyes brimming, and says, “I want to go home.”

Blake nods. “Okay.”

Murphy makes his way through the party, but suddenly he feels like he’s moving through molasses. Every step towards the door feels wrong. People are jumping and dancing all around him, lights flashing, head pounding, and he feels weak.

_If you need me_.

Blindly Murphy turns back to the kitchen where Blake is cracking open a beer, setting Murphy’s empty glass into the sink. Almost without thinking, Murphy grabs Blake’s hand and tugs.

“Hey, what are you—”

“I need you to take me home,” Murphy says, the words falling out gracelessly.

Blake looks at him strangely, but nods.

They make it out the door this time, out of the suffocating, deafening noise, and out into the cold morning air. Murphy is breathing heavy, still slightly weak, and he glances over at Blake.

“You all right?” he asks softly.

Murphy takes a deep breath. “Let’s just walk,” he says, and Blake follows.

They’re quiet for a while, walking side by side, Blake occasionally sipping his beer.

“Do you want to talk?” Blake asks eventually. They’re just outside of Blake’s neighborhood, crossing the street. The traffic light at the intersection changes from red to green, but there are no cars in the road to respond. Aside from them, the small town feels vacant.

“If I wanted to talk I would have started a conversation already,” Murphy says.

Blake is quiet again.

“I’m sorry,” Murphy says.

“That’s okay.”

Another silence. They keep walking.

It’s almost… there’s something different about the way Murphy feels in this moment; not necessarily _nice_ , but not quite as _broken_ as before. He hadn’t expected the night to take this turn—he certainly never would have gone to this stupid party if he’d known this would happen—but since it did, he’s almost sort of glad Blake found him. Murphy doesn’t know what he’d be doing if he’d been left alone, but it wouldn’t have been good.

“Hey, look at that,” Blake says, giving his hand a squeeze. Murphy hadn’t realized they were still holding hands. “The sun’s coming up.”

And it is, the ashy blue sky fading into a spot of pale orange on the horizon; the first light of morning. “It always does,” Murphy says. He’s never understood humanity’s obsession with sunrises.

“Yeah,” Blake says as they round the corner onto Murphy’s street, “doesn’t that make you feel better?”

Murphy stifles a laugh. His heartbeat is a dull ache thudding in his chest, his head is still pounding, his throat is sore, and his life is still a nightmare. “Why would it? After everything I’ve…” Murphy pauses. “After everything _we’ve_ been through, why would that make anything feel better?

“Because,” Blake says. With his face towards the light, his dark eyes look flecked in gold. Murphy can see every freckle on his face. “After everything we’ve been through, the sun still rises. There’s always going to be tomorrow, you know?”

Murphy looks down at his hands—at _their_ hands. “I guess so.”

They’re at his house now, but Murphy doesn’t feel any better. _Home_. That’s what he needs, but this house has never been his home, not since…

“Well, this is your stop, kid.” It’s supposed to be a joke, lighthearted and intended to provide a witty, story-book ending to this fucked up night, but it doesn’t land. Murphy finds his throat growing thick at the thought of being back here, in this house, back to where he started, alone.Suddenly, desperately, he realizes.

He doesn’t want to let go.

Murphy stands there, Bellamy Blake beside him, hand in hand, in front of the house that was never a home. Blake doesn’t say anything, seeming somehow to understand Murphy’s hesitation. They wait, and the sun rises behind them.

“She’s going to wake up soon,” Murphy murmurs.

“Your mom?”

He nods.

“Murphy,” Blake says, “do you need… help?”

Murphy doesn’t know what he needs, but it’s not this house. It’s not this shadow of a life he’s been living.

He shrugs.

Blake squeezes his hand once more. “It was nice to see you again,” he begins, and Murphy’s heart begins to thud as he realizes that Blake is about to say goodbye.

_Don’t leave me,_ he almost says, but instead he says, “You too.”

Blake laughs. “I know you don’t mean that.”

“No,” Murphy says, realizing at the same moment the words come out, “I mean it. Really.”

Blake claps him on the shoulder, and in that swift movement, the connection is broken. “You’ll be okay, you know that?”

Murphy’s hand trembles. He closes it into a fist as if to hold onto that moment, however stupid that might be.

“Bla—Bellamy,” Murphy says, and stops.

“Yeah?”

He really looks golden in the sunlight. “I—I just, wanted to say… thank you.”

Bellamy shrugs, giving him a smile that shines like the sun rising in the sky. “Let me know if you need me, all right Murph?”

His stomach feels strange as Bellamy walks away. His fingertips tingle as he touches the doorknob, but before he crosses the threshold he looks back at the boy wreathed in sunlight, whose hand was just moments ago in his, and thinks that maybe this is what he needs.

**Author's Note:**

> @murphamyfanfiction on tumblr (the murphamy blog my sister and i run) is having murphamy fanfiction awards!! check us out for all ur murphamy needs.


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